Without Warning

by Reese Knightley

  Without Warning

  Copyright © 2019 Reese Knightley

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Warnings

  Please be advised that this book is intended for adult readers aged eighteen and older due to sexually explicit content, language, and violence. Trigger warning: graphic violence.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art: Reese Dante reesedante.com

  Disclaimer—Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  Editing provided by Heidi Ryan of Amour the Line Editing

  Interior Design and Formatting provided by

  Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design

  Copyright and Trademark Acknowledgments

  The author acknowledges the following copyright and trademark owners in this work of fiction. Ford F150, BMW, Uber, Saks Fifth Avenue, Armani, Jeep Wrangler, Kiton, Mr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Harley Davidson, The Matrix, “Say you won’t let go,” by James Arthur.

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY REESE

  SNEAK PEEK FROM RICOCHET

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another.—Thomas Merton

  Harrison

  “Who sent them?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied, and he wasn’t sure why, but the thought of his uncle finding out how much he’d been duped didn’t sit well. And god, had he been duped.

  “That’s it! I’m hiring you a bodyguard!” his uncle bellowed.

  “Don’t, please. A bodyguard is the last thing I want or need.” His childhood from the age of ten had been filled with security, off and on.

  Uncle Dean looked troubled. “Harrison, I must.”

  “The last time I had a bodyguard, he was killed,” he said faintly.

  “I know how hard this is for you.”

  Really? He gazed down blindly at his hands and then lifted them, palms up, to his uncle as if the man could see how much blood had once covered them. Then he pressed his trembling fingers to his lips and the room blurred.

  “I don’t think you do.”

  Dean hadn’t been present when someone tried to kill him. Mitchell, his bodyguard, had been there, though, and had been killed.

  In the end, Mitchell had killed the gunman but not until two people had been wounded and Mitchell had lost his own life.

  “I gotta get to work.” He hurried from his uncle’s office.

  “Harrison! I’m calling a trusted friend!”

  Wiping at his face, he struggled to push the memories away. To his uncle, it seemed so cut and dry, but it wasn’t. Harrison longed to feel safe without putting others in harm’s way, was that too much to ask?

  Reaching his office, he met Toby coming down the hallway.

  “Everything okay?”

  “No, shit can’t get any more complicated.”

  He hurried into his office and shoved his fingers between his neck and tie to loosen the noose a bit and tossed his briefcase onto his desk. Fumbling with the top drawer, he took out several bottles of pills.

  “Complicated how?” Toby asked, following him into his office. Seeing the bottles, Toby grabbed a water from the small personal fridge in the corner and handed it to him.

  Harrison twisted the cap off the bottle and the pink, disc-sized pills spilled on the desk. He snatched up several and chewed them to ward off the nausea and then noisily twisted the cap off the ibuprofen to ward off his pounding headache. Swallowing a few in one gulp along with the water, he drew in several deep, noisy breaths.

  He couldn’t get Mitchell’s dying smile out of his head. No matter how much he’d screamed at Mitchell to hang on, it hadn’t mattered in the end.

  Shutting out Toby’s concerned face, he turned abruptly to the row of windows that looked out over the city and took in a long, shaky breath.

  The people of Denver, Colorado, looked like little ants from the twenty-sixth floor of his office building, but even a view he normally enjoyed disappeared.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he turned. What’s the matter? Try everything.

  Could he let his overprotective loving uncle win this battle and potentially have another death on his hands?

  He lowered slowly into his office chair and lifted his favorite pen. Carefully, he tapped it against his very full desk calendar. Work, he needed to work.

  “Harrison?” Toby frowned.

  “It’s Uncle Dean.” He gnawed at his lip. But it wasn’t Dean’s fault. He wasn’t the one that messed up. I brought this into my life.

  “Is he interfering again?” Concern etched the big guy’s face.

  “Of course he is, and he’s throwing money at the problem like usual, thinking that will fix it.”

  He knew that was an unfair statement, Dean cared about his safety above everything else, but his uncle was throwing money at something that couldn’t be fixed. Nothing was going to fix this, he was flawed, and there was no fixing that.

  Toby’s brow creased. “How?”

  “What?” He frowned having lost his train of thought.

  “How did he throw money at it?” Toby pressed.

  “It’s too long to go into.” There was no sense in worrying Toby. Harrison spun the chair around to the window, not really seeing anything.

  The first threat had been a small, typed note with the words “you’ll pay” written on it delivered to his office in a sealed envelope.

  Harrison knew with certainty that Edward had sent it. Bastard. His back spasmed and he reached behind to rub at the soreness, willing the pain meds to kick in.

  It wasn’t that he’d opened his heart to Edward, thank god. He’d done something much worse, he’d trusted him.

  Embarrassment over bad choices had kept his mouth shut about the previous note, but the hatefulness behind what was delivered today left him feeling concerned. So much so that when the dead flowers and the same sick note arrived in his office this morning, he’d made the mistake of showing them to Marty.

  His assistant, never any good at not interfering, had immediately taken the ominous items to his uncle.


  Pressing his lips together, he swiveled back around to his desk and Toby. His friend had squeezed his large frame into one of the small office chairs in front of his desk and sat quietly, looking over a printed report. The man worked in his video feed department and had his face buried in a report more often than not.

  What Harrison needed to do was come up with a plan to thwart his uncle, because he didn’t have it in him to deal with putting another life at risk. Call him a coward, but he just couldn’t do it. Mitchell’s life had ended over death threats from an unhappy employee. This time, the threat was a bitter ex-boyfriend playing a stupid and childish game with notes. Nobody was getting hurt or killed this time, not over a few stupid notes and dead flowers.

  “We’ve run out of time for an early breakfast.” Toby looked up from the report, reminding him that they were supposed to hit the cafe down the block for coffee and food.

  “I know and it’ll need to wait until tomorrow,” he agreed. Ignoring the way his stomach gnawed on itself, he pulled his day planner over and flipped through the pages.

  “I can stick around,” Toby said, leaning forward and jogging his attention back. His friend was a worrier.

  “I have appointments starting now and throughout the morning.” He gave a small smile.

  A quick rap on the door filled the room and Marty Baker poked her head inside. Her green eyes held concern. She wore her messy hair in a bun, and her expensive pantsuit had more than a few wrinkles.

  He couldn’t survive without her. The forty year old woman was a top-notch assistant and had been with him since the day he’d come to work with his father after college.

  Harrison should have anticipated her move to tell his uncle about the damned delivery.

  “Your eleven o’clock is here, Mr. Trudel.”

  “Thank you, Marty. Give me five minutes before sending him in.”

  Marty eyed him and stayed in the doorway.

  Toby stood, ran his fingers through his bright red hair, and approached his chair. “Call me if you need someone to hang out with or talk.” His friend squeezed his shoulder.

  “I will.”

  Marty continued to eye him after Toby left the room.

  “You could have warned me,” Harrison grumbled at her.

  “If I had done that, you would have found a way around it. Now, it’s done.” She nodded decisively and snapped the door closed.

  He sighed and tapped his pen on the desk before spinning back to the window.

  While his personal life was a mess, he found comfort in the order of his job.

  As Trudel Industries’ Technical Operations Manager, he met with and vetted future clientele and generated new business for their real time security software program.

  Running his father’s company alongside of his uncle was rewarding, and he was sure his dad would have wanted that for them. Only Henry Trudel wasn’t here to ask. His father was gone and had left him in an extremely difficult situation.

  Oh god, dad, what were you thinking? A lump formed in his throat. No matter how much he wished at that very moment for Henry’s guidance, nothing on earth could bring his dad back.

  Knuckles rapped on the door.

  “Come in.”

  He squared his shoulders and stood, straightening his tie.

  The elevator pinged to a stop on his floor of the parking garage. Just before lunch, the place was deserted. He stopped because the area looked darker than usual. Frowning, he pulled out his car keys and cell phone.

  “Security,” the desk answered on the first ring.

  “Renee?”

  “Hi, Mr. Trudel.”

  “Hey, can you have the lights checked in the parking garage? My level seems to be dimly lit.”

  The place was packed with cars in every spot, but nothing moved in the quiet space.

  “Sure thing!” the perky woman said.

  Smiling, he tucked his phone away and approached his BMW.

  Hitting the button on the key fob, his foot kicked something on the ground. Whatever it was, it broke with a light tinkling sound.

  Frowning, he reached down and then jerked back with a quick, sucking breath at the sharp, stabbing pain in his hand.

  “What the hell?” he hissed.

  A red, sticky substance covered his palm and in the dim light, an open cut oozed blood. He held his hand to his nose and a sweet, familiar scent of strawberry filled the air.

  Something dark on the windshield drew him around to the front of his car. The same sticky substance streaked across the white hood with a large, red X, and words had been painted across the windshield.

  You’ll pay.

  Okay, he wasn’t afraid to admit that he was freaked out. Darting a quick, jerking glance around, he took several rapid steps away, back toward the elevator. His mind raced.

  He didn’t know what Edward was playing at, but he was done. Cradling his hand in his other one, he juggled his keys, careful to keep his wounded palm away from his dress shirt.

  The elevator loomed in the distance, and a sourness churned his stomach as he quickened his pace.

  A noise came from behind him and he turned, but before he could get a look, something struck the back of his head, sending pain splintering his skull.

  “Ah!” The momentum of the blow slammed him forward and took him to the ground. He tried like hell to keep his face from hitting the pavement and just managed it by landing on his hands and knees.

  Pain lanced in his right knee when he hit the floor. The next second, a person landed on his back, taking him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. The guy’s hand fisted in his hair and forced his face, cheek down, grinding into the asphalt.

  The world narrowed down to getting air back into his lungs and he panicked when his lungs refused to expand. He fought for oxygen until finally, air rushed back into his lungs and he sucked in huge, gulping breaths.

  He tried to turn his head to see out of the corner of his eye, but the man’s fist tightened and his face stayed tucked against Harrison’s nape, out of his line of vision.

  The attacker’s harsh, panting breath suddenly wafted near the edge of his ear and rushed alongside his neck. The man’s crotch ground down hard against his ass.

  No! Fucker, no! Harrison bucked, clawing at the hard ground, and he felt a nail break. The smell of asphalt punched through the sour taste filling his mouth.

  A strange animal-like sound filled the parking garage, and it took him a second to realize it was coming from his own throat. He drew in a heaving breath and cried out with every bit of strength he had.

  His cry echoed sharply through the garage.

  The attacker froze, then shoved off of him. Harrison lay frozen, hearing footsteps running away over the pounding of his heart. He rolled over and scrambled to his knees.

  Get up! Get the fuck up! Gazing frantically around, he dashed at his cheeks and struggled unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled to a nearby SUV and leaned a shaking hand against it. Gazing wildly around, he took a few wobbling steps before he spotted his keys on the ground. Bracing a hand on the hood of a pickup truck, he grabbed ahold of them.

  “Harrison!”

  He whirled around, ears still ringing, and gasped. The keys he’d just picked up flew from his numb fingers and skidded to the floor with a jangle.

  “Shelby! God, you scared me!”

  Spotting the familiar face and dark hair, tears of relief sprang to the surface.

  Shelby Clark, the team leader of Trudel’s video feed department, jogged toward him through the parking structure. The man was dressed in wrinkled coveralls.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” Shelby glanced around as he rushed closer to take his hand and look him over.

  “Did you see anybody running past you?”

  “No, why? Shit, you’re hurt!”

  “Cut myself on some glass.” He blinked away the moisture in his eyes and brushed a hand down his filthy shirt, leaving a trail of strawberry goo and blood behind.

  Bef
ore he could retrieve his keys, Shelby lifted them from the ground and handed them over.

  “It looks like more than that,” Shelby said, curling an arm around his shoulder and urging him toward the bench that sat next to the elevators. “Sit down for a minute, let me see.”

  I’ll never get the stains out. He eased gratefully down to sit and glanced up at Shelby blankly.

  “Your face is scratched.” Shelby yanked out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the scrape on his cheek.

  Harrison reached up and held the cloth against his cheek.

  “He hit me over the head.” He slowly reached up and gently ran his fingers over the back of his head, feeling the knot forming.

  “Who hit you over the head?” Shelby frowned, squatting near him.

  “I don’t know.” He swallowed thickly.

  “Damn it, you’re hand’s bleeding.”

  He glanced down again and his voice shook. “I better get something to clean this up.” His voice cracked and he handed Shelby the handkerchief.

  “Let’s get inside, I’ll come with you.” Shelby tucked the handkerchief away and gently took his arm and helped him from the bench. Thank god he was no longer alone. Shelby’s big presence felt comforting and reassuring.

  “Thanks,” he whispered.

  “You shouldn’t be alone,” Shelby said.

  “I’ll be okay. What’s with the coveralls?”

  Shelby looked down and smirked before he unzipped them. The guy was cute in a boy next door kind of way, with a quiet smile, dark brown hair, and light blue eyes. “I keep several pairs down here. We all do,” the technician said, and as he continued to pull the front zipper down, it caught on the material of his tie beneath. Shelby took several moments to finagle the teeth from the silk. The coveralls were removed to reveal a shirt, tie, and dress pants beneath.

  “I know we keep them on hand, I paid the bill for them.” He frowned. “Why are you wearing them today?”

  “I needed to check the mount structures for the new camera placements.”

  “Oh.” He lifted a hand and held it to his head.

  “Yeah, that’s something that can’t be done from behind a desk.”